A Mother's Heart Swells

The Boy Wonder started his senior year of high school today. I got up at 6 a.m. so I could send him off in style with a home-cooked breakfast and fresh cafe au lait. Though my right thumb and forefinger now bend more, they've lost strength since last week's operation, so he had to break the eggs and open the appallingly priced bag of Diedrich Coffee beans ($15.80 for 12 oz.; I'm sticking with tea!), but I was able to do the fixins' pretty much one-handed.

I worry plenty about BW, who's a bit...er...casual about his assignments. His motto: "I like school, I just hate schoolwork!" However, a couple weeks ago he engaged me in detailed conversation about the Warhol Factory (I knew some of the people peripherally way back when), and yesterday about Lou Reed while we listened to "Transformer" on BW's iPod. All on his own he's discovered the Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, Television, Patti Smith and the Talking Heads. I wowed him by recognizing a song he played as being by Iggy Pop, and knowing the words to the Heads' "Born Under Punches" (though I confess I didn't know the title till just now). My sole motherly caution, based on too-personal experience: "Copy the music, not the behavior!"

I started BW with good home training. At 3, he was playing harmonica to Commander Cody's "Down to Seeds & Stems Again Blues" (a skill he has since lost, alas). Then I had some painful explaining to do when he wanted Aretha Franklin and Little Richard to come to his fourth birthday party. As he reasoned, their voices were constantly in our home and car; why couldn't they show up in person? However, I redeemed myself on his fifth birthday, when I took him to see Asleep at the Wheel and he got to meet leader Ray Benson just before he went onstage. After that, I had to put BW's name in glitter on his guitar strap, just like Ray. Around the same time, BW got to shake the late Freddy King's hand and ask James Cotton a burning question: "Who's older, you or Johnny Winter?" "I don't really know," was the disingenuous response. (Once out of earshot, I explained that Cotton was older, even though Winter's hair is white.) By age 8, I'd introduced BW to the Ramones with the hoot of a movie "Rock 'n' Roll High School," and he still loves them.

Though the Boy Wonder hadn't quite finished the required reading for his American Lit class last night, he started learning the chords and words to Patti Smith's "Gloria," which I remember excitedly spinning for friends nearly 30 years ago.

So I know I brought my kid up right after all.

P.S. See BW with canine companions on today's GalleyCat.

More Pained Laughs

Google Alert just notified me that I'm mentioned in a recent post on Dana's Tea House: In a Theater Not Near You, a collection of imaginary home videos by writer Dana Y. T. Lin, who is making creative use of her third bout of strep throat. I've often cast myself as a fairy-tale heroine, but never so hilarously. (And never mind that my enormous feet disqualify me as Cinderella.) My favorite is #7:

Finding Bella -– When a hospital orderly wheels a drugged up Bella into the wrong operating room, her dedicated doctor (played by George Clooney) cancels his date with Miss Snark to find her.

Two poems didn't make the deadline for Miss Snark's Humerus Contest:

1.
Apply balm to your arm for the cut
Although it's now shiny
It could've been your heinie
Now that's a pain in the butt.

2.
There was a reviewer named Bella-ire
who panned A Streetcar Named Desire
but nobody yelled Stella
when she was tossed by her fella--
Horse Gomez, now known as Horse Dire.

Only a Short Breather

Multi-tasking with Max

I got bored lying around reading and thinking (can't have too much of that, can we?), and a little while ago determined that it is indeed possible to use my laptop while flat on my back with my arm up on ice. That's just when Max decided that it was the perfect time to ensconce himself on my chest. Odd how such a time often occurs when I'm otherwise engaged.

What the World Needs Now

Apologies to Messsrs. Bacharach and David, but even more than love, sweet love, the world is in dire need of living, breathing copy editors. (Also, writers who are better-versed in grammar and vocabulary, but I won't go into that now.)

As illustration, consider the below exhibits. They're from Denver newspapers, but similar examples can be found all over the country.

From a column by Cindy Rodriguez in today's Denver Post:

Of course, one can't get to that point if they haven't gotten past Step 1.

From a column by Marty Meitus in yesterday's Rocky Mountain News (one of the very few news or opinion pieces that refreshingly didn't mention JonBenet Ramsey):

Meantime, the men would be outside, inventing things such as cars, so that way out in the [future] 21st century, one of their ancestors could call his mother...

GAH!!! How is our kids going to learn if they don't got good examples?

Full disclosure: I am a recovering copy editor and proofreader.

Taking a Break...I Mean a Breather

I was so excited to be back home with self-bending digits yesterday that I spent way too much time sitting up, much of it online. At the end of the day my arm was swollen and hot, and had turned all sorts of fun party colors. I had it up on a pillow overnight, but apparently not nearly high or straight enough, because this morning it was even more swollen and colorful.

So now I'm spending most of my time flat on my back, with the arm on ice at a good upward slant. This is not compatible with using a computer, though it is very compatible with having 13-lb Max nap on my chest--his favorite spot in cooler weather. People say you can't train cats, but he has learned not to walk on me via my right arm. I think my hollering and violently tossing him overboard may have had something to do with it. Now if I could just get Jenny dog not to nudge that arm when she wants me to pet her...

And so to bed.

The Devil's in the Details

First, let me establish that I currently have, and have always had, two arms firmly attached to the customary areas of my body. The upper right arm suffered a bit of damage, and three days ago Dr. M performed surgery to repair it. Before I was knocked out, he scrawled "THIS ARM" with indelible marker by my right shoulder. You want an orthopedist with an eye for important details. You want nurses like that too, but several times during my hospital stay I had to instruct them to put the blood pressure cuff on my uninjured LEFT arm, thank you very much.

This morning my osteopath had Dr. M's Operation Report faxed over. I glanced over it while stopped in traffic on the way home. (Darling Husband was at the wheel.) I was already feeling queasy from painkillers, and reading about how my own deltoid was peeled away from the fractured humerus and dissected didn't settle my stomach any.

But I burst out laughing when I got to this sentence: "The arm was able to be removed without difficulty." Inquiring minds want to know how it was reattached so quickly and seamlessly.

Fashion Reprieve

Over the past three months I've learned to do many things using just my left hand. To type, for example. However, there are several things I can't do. One of them is to clip the fingernails on my left hand; another is to tweeze my eyebrows. I have Darling Husband for clipper duty, but given the lingering pain around my broken facial bones, I'm not letting anyone near my face except my osteopath--and he makes sure I've had a couple Valium before he even attempts an acupuncture treatment there.

What to do? Fall is just around the corner, and with it comes the desire to be Fashion Forward--or at least not backward. Happily, yesterday The New York Times came to my rescue with a style piece, "Throw Your Tweezers Away." Seems that once again Fashion has caught up to me; or rather circled around and nipped me from behind. In other words, shaggy eyebrows à la 1978 Brooke Shields are back IN.

This is very convenient for me: All I have to do is keep doing nothing. Oh, and try not to shriek with laughter at the description of and ludicrous prices for the services of a "professional eyebrow groomer," including--are you ready?--eyebrow extensions. Here's another product of which I was blissfully ignorant and can't grasp the need for: clear mascara.

Last week, one of the Denver papers announced the return of 1980s "retro" fashions, and breathlessly forecast that women would be showing off their "well-toned thighs" in tight leggings topped by a tunic. Ha! Anyone who's been to a downmarket shopping center lately knows that style never faded away, and is particularly favored by the grossly overweight.

I suppose pretty soon we'll be seeing long, baggy jackets with enormous shoulder pads again too. Which reminds me: Circa 1985, I was at a party at the home of a friend's parents. The host introduced his cousin, a short, rotund, yet flat-chested woman attired in just such a jacket (in a loud print, if memory serves). Never one to mince words--or lower his voice--the host boomed, "If you ask me, those pads are in the wrong place!" We will draw a discreet veil over what ensued.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

I wonder what kind of hospital celebrities check into when they're suffering from exhaustion. Surely none I've ever been to. Between the pain from surgery, drug side effects, too-thin mattress, beeping machines (my roommate was wired to all sorts of noisy gizmos), healthcare personnel squelching in and out at all hours, announcements on the P.A. system, roommate's laborious and noisy passages to the john, and her #@%! cellphone with the top-volume "Hallelujah Chorus" ring tone, I hardly got any sleep for two nights. (I was originally slated for just one night--"drive-by surgery," a friend calls it).

Other than that, the hospital stay was fine. The surgery went well, though I ended up needing a 6-inch, rather than 4-inch, plate screwed to my humerus. The incision goes from near the shoulder almost to the elbow on the inside of my arm. I'll have to show the scar when I go through airport metal detectors, as it's easy to fake a doctor's note. ("Wear short sleeves," advised the orthopod.) My arm hurts like bloody hell, but I already can bend my thumb and forefinger more; the hospital staff were kind and helpful; and most amazingly, the salmon I ordered for dinner last night was moist and tender--not the crusty brick I'd feared.

Boy Wonder had to read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time over the summer (i.e., just before school begins next week). He loved it, so I brought it with me and read it cover to cover yesterday. I loved it too.

Best of all were the buoyant send-off and return greetings I got from the astonishing number of entries (84!!!) to Miss Snark's Bella Stander Humerus Poetry Contest (posted 15-17 Aug). Here's proof positive that the blogosphere is a community--and a generous, supportive one at that. Thanks again to one and all, especially to those who defended my and Miss Snark's honor against the Nitwit of the Day. I had no idea what an e-ruckus would be stirred up!

A Dose of Humer...er...Humor

For three long months, my broken right arm was making steady, if slow, progress. I could move it more, lift heavier objects and--finally!--type with both hands, even though the thumb and first two fingers were dysfunctional. Then a couple of weeks ago things started going rapidly downhill. Now the arm clunks constantly, I can barely move it without pain and I'm back to almost exclusive use of my (non-dominant) left hand.

An Xray last month showed a bone splinter jutting out of the upper humerus--right where the arm hurt most, as I tartly informed my orthopedist. I had a CT scan a week ago, and one image showed the bone shaft looking like this: S
instead of this: O.

So in less than one hour I go to the hospital, where the orthopod will screw a 4" stainless steel plate to the bone. (I was assured that I'd get a special note so I could go through airport metal detectors-- my first worry.) I sent emails so informing my various correspondents. To my enormous surprise, the marvelous Miss Snark, the Literary Agent responded by running a "First (and last!) Bella Stander Get Humerus Poetry Contest."

Good thing my broken ribs and split lips have healed, else reading the entries would be excruciating. As it is, I laughed so hard my face ached. I can tell that some of the poems were written by personal acquaintances ("richly textured" in #5 is my pet-peeve phrase). Beverage Alert for #26, which had me weak with laughter, and a special nod to #10 for the brilliant Robert Frost take-off.

Laughter is indeed the best medicine. Thank you, one and all!

Party Like It's 1929

Can't get to the Riviera for a while? Enjoy reading about riotous drunks--natural and supernatural, tragically and comically violent? Here's the perfect pair of books to read in this exact order:

1. Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
2. Topper Takes a Trip by Thorne Smith

Fitzgerald explores Great Themes, though not as neatly as in The Great Gatsby. The book is a bit depressing too, but paints a vivid picture of American expats and Europe in the 1920s. The Yanks were like puppies, blithely frisking through the war-blasted landscape while the battered survivors stoically cleaned up after them--and sometimes battered them back.

Thorne Smith inhabits much of the same Riviera terrain (I wonder if they hung out together; and if so, who drank more?), but his book is sparkling with irrepressible joie de vivre and flowing spirits, vinous and spectral. He has a marvelous knack for rendering French verbatim into hilarious English, and you can practically taste the sunlit Meditterranean air.

Too Much Information!

I've been looking at a lot of author websites and bios in the line of work lately, and have been amazed at what I've been learning. To wit: Authors' ages, education history, work history, family make-up, family members' names--spouse, kids, parents, in-laws(!)--pets' breeds & names.

No one needs to know that stuff except family historians and stalkers. The former can get it from you personally. Don't help the latter.

Unless you've written a book on childcare, adoption or parenting, we don't need to know about your kids. Nor should we see their pictures on your website if they're school age or younger. If they're teenage or older, get their permission first.

Similarly, if you haven't written a book about animals, we don't need to know much--if anything--about the pets in your life.

Unless your significant other is your cowriter/illustrator or famous, we don't need to know his/her name either.

The only reason to indicate your age is if you're a Wunderkind like Christopher Paolini or a venerable ancient like Studs Terkel.

It's OK to mention your family (briefly and preferably not by name unless you've written a memoir) on the bio page of your website. Other than that, focus on yourself and your work. Rule of thumb: If you wouldn't put it on a job application, don't put it in your bio.

Good bio:
Joe Shmoe lives in Sullivan County, N.Y., where he spends his non-writing time chest-deep in cold water, hoping to catch a record trout.

Bad bio:
Jane Shmoe lives in Alexandria, Va., with her Chinese engineer husband Phil, 5-year-old twins Amethyst and Tourmaline, and Kerry Blue terrier Seamus.

By happenstance, a few days ago Agent Kristin blogged about TMI (Too Much Information) in authors' query letters. Read and wonder!

Mystery of the Day

I've been steadily going through my bookshelves, reading many books I've been promising myself I'd get around to "some day." The latest was Elinor Lipman's THE DEARLY DEPARTED. Maybe it was the Art Deco-inspired jacket, but after I finished the Lipman I suddenly had a yen to read something by Thorne Smith. I have three long out-of-print volumes by him; apart from an I. D. bracelet and a tietack, they're all the possessions of my father's that my mother retained after they divorced.

One of the Thorne Smith books had a piece of folded paper sticking out of it. I pulled it out and flattened it. To my immense surprise, it was a sheet of notepaper printed with the name and Fifth Avenue address of Mrs. Laurance Rockefeller.*

For the life me, I can't figure out how that notepaper got there. The only Rockefellers I ever knew were poor relations (maybe) who attended my public high school.

I started reading THE GLORIOUS POOL in the THORNE SMITH 3 BAGGER (Doubleday Doran, 1943), which I'd last read at age 13, lured by the line drawings of topless women in scanties. (In my youthful enthusiasm, I'd thought that signified there'd be hot passages. There weren't; all the sex was totally cloaked in allusion.) It has a good premise--magical pool restores an aging man and his over-the-hill mistress to their glorious, dissolute youth--and some good descriptions, but waaaaay too much "clever" repartee impeding the action. And oh, all the cocktails! You can tell this was written during Prohibition, and that Thorne Smith was a major lush. (According to Wikipedia: "Smith drank as steadily as his characters; his appearance in James Thurber's The Years With Ross involves an unexplained week-long disappearance.")

I gave up around Chapter 3, and made it through maybe three grafs of the next novel in the collection, SKIN AND BONES. But then I hit TOPPER and stayed. Is there any better description of the stultefying suburban commuter life than this? (Note reference to child labor.)

On Monday morning, after exchanging pennies with a small Italian child for a stillborn edition of a New York paper, he greeted his friends with his habitual placidity. No, he had not heard the new one about Bill's furnace. He was sorry that Mrs. Thompson was having servant trouble. Too bad. Was that so? Jennings had made a killing again. Great stuff. Surely, he'd bring the Missus over first thing. Wednesday evenng? Good! Good! His tulips? Doing splendidly! A whole bed of them--all blooming. No, not brewing, just smousing about. Is that so! How about your own cellar? None of that stuff, Jack! The whole town knows about you. The farmer's daughter and the tramp? Sure, he'd like to hear about it. Wait till they got aboard.

And off went Topper with his boon companions, all of whom he decided were perfect strangers to him.

Another mystery:
What do Topper and Kramer of "Seinfeld" have in common?
(See answer in comments section.)

*Motto: "My husband is so rich, he doesn't have to spell his first name right."

Recovered Memory...and Camera

Fun at the Denver Zoo, April 2006

Several people have asked me how long it takes to get over a concussion. I often wondered myself. Now I know: about 3 months.

I know this because our digital camera had been missing since my Great Fall on May 1. Eventually I pinned its disappearance on Darling Husband, who I remembered had commandeered it a week earlier, when his daughter was visiting. But a month ago, the Boy Wonder recalled that I had used it last to take pictures of a hailstorm that had come at the frigid end of our day at the zoo, which had started off sunny and in the 80s. I barely remembered taking those pictures, and didn't have the foggiest idea of where the camera could be. I tore the house apart, searching every nook, cranny, drawer, bag and pile. Nothing. Maybe I'd left the camera in the car and the cleaners took it at the carwash? Or maybe someone who came to the house had nicked it? (An ugly thought, as I'd supposed all our visitors and contractors to be scrupulously honest.)

And then I woke up this morning, and while I was lying in bed suddenly rembembered takng photos of the hail. Hmm, I thought. What would I have done with the camera? Why, hang it on the coatrack in the foyer--under my coat so no one would walk off with it, of course. I marched downstairs, lifted my coat off the first hook and...Voila!

Moral: Don't leave winter coats hanging in the foyer all year.

The hail pix were a bust, but here are Darling Husband, me and Jenny
at the Buffalo Bill Museum & Gravesite the day before.

Virtual Getaway

It's been hot and mostly arid here in Denver, with temperatures in the 90s forecast for the next few days (though I've learned not to trust the weather predictions here). Except for day trips with Darling Husband, I'm stuck here for the rest of the summer while I wait--often impatiently--for my body to heal.

So here's a refreshing photo I took in Lancashire, UK, last year, just after going with author Mary Sharratt on what may turn out to have been the last trail ride of my life. (That is, if DH has anything to say about it. We have radically different views of my equestrian future.) Pendle Hill, of Quaker fame, is off in the misty background.

Rumors of the Book Tour's Demise Are Greatly Exaggerated

"I think we can all agree that the traditional bookstore author tour is dead," says Jessa Crispin in The Book Standard. Well, I don't, especially since the only bookstores Crispin considers are suburban Borders and Barnes & Noble. There are still many independent bookstores and other chains across the country, and--surprise!--many are located in non-suburban areas.

True, as Crispin laments, echoing author David Milofsky in his Pity the poor author at those painful book readings in the Denver Post, all too often at readings there are

no audiences, no publicity, sometimes the only person you’re reading to is either your mother or a homeless person who came in out of the rain.

But it's time to stop laying all the blame on the bookstores, and for authors to take some responsibility for themselves. Authors should go to places where they know they'll have an audience: through personal connections (family, friends, alma mater), a receptive community (say, Milwaukee for a book on beer), business/professional connections (e.g., Seattle for a history of Boeing). And those local connections must be PRIMED via email and postcard mailings for each stop along the way. Which is why authors must build up their mailing lists.

Of course, reading at a bookstore that does lots of publicity and advertising helps. On July 6, I went to the first author event at Tattered Cover's new flagship store. Francine du Plessix Gray read from her memoir Them (which I have most happily read now that my right arm is stronger). There were some 25 people in the audience--for a paperback reissue! in July! in Denver!--of which at least 10 bought books and had them signed.

Katharine Weber had an audience of 80 at Politics & Prose in D.C. last night for her marvelous new novel, Triangle. I wasn't there, but I know from having had her on panels at the VaBook Festival, that like du Plessix Gray she gave a well-organized, polished, easily audible presentation.

Crispin extols non-bookstore reading series, especially ones with alcohol (tipsy people buy more books), as the wave of the future. It's certainly a wave, but not the only one on the beach, and it's not going to wipe out well-run bookstore events any time soon. Besides, there's no guarantee that the authors at a reading series will be any better performers than the ones at your local Borders.

I've sat through deadly readings by the nominees the night before presentation of the National Book Critics Circle Awards. You'd think all those authors would be brief, audible and well-rehearsed, but NOOOOO. One year, the first reader (who shall remain nameless) went on...and on...and on!... for twenty-five minutes. I was itching to run up with a hook--or at least an umbrella with a curved handle--and yank him off the stage. If the other readings had been that long, we would have been there for 7 hours. As it is, they got shorter and shorter (a good reason why one should have a set of different-length readings prepared). Nominee #14 brought the house down when he prefaced his 3-minute reading with the proclamation, "I am the last man standing...[dramatic pause]...between you and a DRINK!"

"Reality" Indeed...

Quick! What's wrong with this headline?

'Next Top Model' Writers Threaten Strike

They say producers of the reality show, which is a key part of the new CW network lineup, have ignored their request to join a union.
By Richard Verrier, LA Times Times Staff Writer, July 21, 2006

"America's Next Top Model" is getting ugly. Writers of the hit reality show walked off the job for an hour Thursday and threatened to strike today, alleging that the show's producers had snubbed their request to join the Writers Guild of America, West.

A Real Politician: The Kinkster

Back when I was a dissolute art student, one of my favorite bands was Kinky Friedman & His Texas Jewboys. Kinky penned such ditties as "Homo Erectus," which begins:

I left Barber College
Searchin' for knowledge,
Went to the university.
I must confess, Sir
This lady professor
She turned me on to anthropology.
Now I'm a Homo Erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
Dear Doctor Howard
Come down from your tower
And join me for lunch at the Y.
Although you're thirty
I still think you're purty
Let's give it that good ole college try.

Many years and one divorce later, I knew I'd found my soul mate in Darling Husband, who loves Kinky's music and devours his comic mysteries. What greater demonstration of love can there be than DH letting me goad him into playing "They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore" on his Christmas morning radio show--in goyische central Virginia, no less? (It was 6am, but still!)

Even though DH doesn't give a hoot about Texas politics, the lone bumper sticker on his car reads "Kinky Friedman for Governor." There's a great feature on him by Peter Carlson in yesterday's Washington Post, "But Seriously, Folks." You gotta love a politician who calls Democrats and Republicans "the Crips and the Bloods," and who:

complains about people who complain that his speeches are full of one-liners: "All politicians speak in one-liners and sound bites. They're just not as funny as mine."

He quotes Mark Twain. He quotes Oscar Wilde. He quotes a pig farmer he met while campaigning: "You ain't worth a damn," the farmer told Kinky, "but you're better than what we got."

I sure hope he wins!

See Bookslut Dec. 'o5 interview with Kinky.

A Dog of a Gift Book

If Jenny (Max the Cat's housemate) could talk, she'd say, "I'm a Gemini...I think." Way back when, the SPCA gave her age as "14 weeks" and I did the math. So Flag Day was made her official birthday.

Yesterday's mail brought a press release and sample photocopied pages of DOG STARS: Astrology for Dog Lovers, by Teen Vogue astrologer Sherene Schostak and dog portrait photographer Wendy Lam, coming in November from Viking Studio. Jenny's and my reaction: "Oy! Owwoooo!"

According to the release, "This book tackles the big questions such as:

• What does your dog look for in an owner?
• Why are some dogs more affectionate than others?
• How can you tell what sign your dog is?
• If your dog could talk, what would he/she want to tell you?"

Here are my very own big answers:

• Someone who will treat it kindly and give it food, water, shelter and plenty of walks.
• Depends on its breed (or breed mix) and how it's been treated and socialized.
• Duh, figure out when it was born. But in my experience, breed trumps astrological sign. A German shorthair pointer will always be zippier than a Bassett hound, no matter what their birthdates.
• "Put down that book and pet me, walk me, feed me."

Preesentation Coutns!
Verbatim quotes from sample page 22:

It is jdog's breed to see what sign he/she is.

Use this chart to figure oout what sign your pooch is by birht day or typical breed*

*Gemini's only entry is "Mutt," which Jenny finds offensive, as she has always referred to herself as a "Designer Blend" (Australian shepherd-Golden retriever, to be exact). There are many purebred dogs born May 22-June 21 who will be equally offended; and zillions of mixed-breeds born at other times of year who will be very surprised (e.g., all the dogs I've ever had).

Special note to Miss Snark and her legions of fans: No poodles!

The Truth Will Always Come Out

I've tried to hide my shameful secret since my dad's death in 1994, but alas today I received an email with this subject header [sic spelling]:

You inherited a small dick from you father and think there is no way to help it.

But fortunately there is hope, as per the body of the message:

We promise th@t after trying Penis Enlarge Patch you dick won’t look like overly boiled sausage.

Guess I'd better get that little thing out of the safe deposit box and see what the patch can do for it. Though I don't find the notion of boiled body parts--even underdone ones--at all erotic. I wonder if I should let my new pen pal know that 1) I'm female, and 2) I prefer my sausage grilled?

Just When You Couldn't Stand Any More Good Writing

Yessss! The winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for hilariously bad writing have been announced.

My favorites:
Sex with Rachel after she turned fifty was like driving the last-place team on the last day of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race, the point no longer the ride but the finish, the difficulty not the speed but keeping all the parts moving in the right direction, not to mention all that irritating barking.
--Dan Winters (Runner-up: Romance), Los Altos Hills, CA

Scarcely three months after he had promised Purity that he would stand by her no matter what, and a bare two hours after he had witnessed the unorthodox birth of her pointy-eared alien child, George somewhat dazedly approached the information desk at the public library and sent the matronly attendant into paroxysms of mirth by asking for a baby care book by Mr. Spock.
--Lionel Monash Hurst (Dishonorable Mention: Science Fiction)

His mistake, Shut-eye McBlamaway reflected, was not in standing up to a gang of desperadoes and rustlers on the high country, but in standing up to a gang of desperadoes and rustlers who had just left the set of a Sergio Leone shoot, and were thus equipped with those guns that never run out of ammunition.
--Samuel Goldstein (Winner: Western), Los Angeles, CA

When she sashayed across the room, her breasts swayed like two house trailers passing on a windy bridge.
--Stan Higley (Special Salute to Breasts Category), Fairport, NY

Getting the performance rating of highly successful, although clearly nothing to be ashamed of, left Blevins somewhat oddly dissatisfied, like when you realize, upon having the triage nurses greet your ambulance, that your underwear, as far as you can determine, is in pretty decent condition*, but you'll, nonetheless, never pull through the surgery.
--Jim Lubell (Miscellaneous Dishonorable Mention), Mechanicsville, Maryland

*Jerry Seinfeld was right: It doesn't matter if you're wearing clean underwear when you get hit by a bus, because they'll be covered with blood. Also, as I discovered in my stint at the hospital, if you're in bad enough shape, the ER techs slice all your clothes off & throw them away--even items that easily zip off, like my leather riding gaiters. (Grrr!) Which is how I wound up wearing nothing but a hospital gown--or two, for walks in the hallway--for an entire week.

A Little Jab'll Do Ya

Since I broke my right arm on May 1, I've been unable to bend the thumb and index finger on their own. Upon waking and throughout the day I try to make the "OK" sign (which, incidentally, is very much not OK in Brazil). Nothing doing: my index finger always stays ramrod straight.

This morning was the same, and once more I despaired of ever getting my hand--and my life--back in working order. So I went for my weekly appointment with osteopath Dr S in no great frame of mind.

After pulling my arm up, down and sideways (I was astonished at its range of motion), Dr S had me lie down. First he did some osteopathic manipulation--aah, what a relief! Then it was time for acupuncture (definitely not always painless; the finest of needles in certain areas of my face and head bring me to tears, if not sobbing panic attacks).

"I'm going to try some electrical stimulation," he said, then put a bunch of needles in my forearm, to which he attached electrodes. They throbbed, but not unpleasantly. He put more needles in my hand and wrist, scalp and face, but no electrodes.

Twenty minutes or so later, he pulled out all the needles. "Make a pinch," he commanded. To my astonishment, for the first time in more than two months my index finger easily curved and touched the thumb, tip to tip. OK!

I'll Die Unliterated

Miss Snark cites an article at Wordwing Editors, Read It Before You Die, which lists 30 titles that a poll of British librarians determined every adult should read before relinquishing this mortal coil.

In order, they are:

1. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
2. The Bible (by God!) [sic]
3. The Lord of the Rings trilogy by JRR Tolkien
4. 1984 by George Orwell
5. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
7. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
8. All Quiet on the Western Front by E M Remarque
9. His Dark Materials trilogy by Phillip Pullman
10. Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
11. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
12. The Lord of the Flies by William Golding
13. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
14. Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
15. Winnie-the-Pooh by AA Milne
16. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
17. The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham
18. Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
19. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
20. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
21. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
22. The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
23. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
24. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
25. The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
26. Life of Pi by Yann Martel
27. Middlemarch by George Eliot
28. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
29. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
30. A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

Evidently the librarians are better at literature than math, because the two trilogies bring the volume count to 34, not 30. But if we accept each trilogy as a single title, then I have read half the ones on the list. (However, I think I should get extra credit for having read the entire Pullman trilogy aloud to the Boy Wonder.)

Shame-faced confession: I've never read (or seen) To Kill a Mockingbird. I'll do it this summer, honest! But I sure as hell won't read Gone with the Wind anytime soon--if ever.

I read the Tolkien at 13 and had such horrible nightmares about the Ring Wraiths that I never went near his books again. I didn't see the movies either. I read Tess after seeing the Polanski movie, and that put me off Hardy for good.

I'd never heard of two titles: Birdsong and Master and Margarita. I've read parts of the Old Testament (known to my crowd as "the Torah.")

I loved The Lovely Bones, but think that Love in the Time of Cholera is infinitely more essential. Couldn't get past page 10 of Time Traveler's Wife, nor page 5 of anything by Coelho. And why list them instead of, say, Huckleberry Finn and The Great Gatsby?

I love Dickens, but why three of his works and not Madame Bovary--or any French titles? Oh, wait...it's a British list. No wonder. (Reminds me of my honeymoon with Husband #1. We were at a restaurant in a fishing village in Cornwall, where many of the exterior walls were embedded with oyster shells. We eagerly ordered oysters, but were told they'd all died of "a French disease."*)

Most of all, why are all the books, with the exception of The Prophet (puh-leeze!), by whites from Europe or the U.S.?

*an archaic term for syphilis

I Could Have Written That Book!

Over the long weekend, Darling Husband took me to Barnes & Noble to redeem a gift card that a friend sent me. On a bargain table I espied Better Homes & Garden's 3 Steps to Weight Loss.

"Huh!" I said to DH. "Three steps? That's easy!" I rattled them off, as follows:

1. Smash up your mouth so you can't bite with your front teeth or chew anything harder than a Cheez-It.
2. Smash up your arm so you have to eat using your non-dominant hand.
3. Take medications that screw up your gut.

Here are the allowed foods:

• Yogurt
• Kefir (like runny yogurt)
• Cottage cheese (like chunky yogurt)
• Tzatziki (made with yogurt)
• Hummus
• Baba ghanouj
• Refried beans
• Eggs
• Chopped or shredded meat
• Soup or stew (if w/ meat, must be very soft)
• Tomatoes, cut small
• Strawberries, ditto
• Lettuce, ditto
• Tuna salad with minced onion/scallion/celery
• Mashed potatoes
• Rice
• Applesauce
• Ice cream (w/ no nuts or hard chunks)
• Pudding (preferably Kozy Shack Tapioca or Chocolate)

Voila! Sure-fire weight loss.

I've been following this regimen and have lost almost 20 lbs in just two months. And with no end in sight to my mouth and arm problems, I'm likely to continue a good while longer. Just 20 more pounds and I'll be back to my high school graduation weight. (I still have the dress I wore and it's in style again...)

My Son the Politician

A couple of weeks ago, the Boy Wonder went to the National Forensic League championships in fabulous Grapevine, TX ("gateway to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport"). His event is Student Congress, and he gave an authorship speech in support of a bill to remove "In God We Trust" from U.S. currency. He knew his goose was cooked when one of the judges walked in carrying a book entitled 50 Gospel Songs for Children. He didn't make it past the first round. But he had a great time for a week, and at least now I can truthfully say that my 6'2", 122 lb. darling competed in the NFL when he was in high school.

BW is now working for the state senate campaign of the father of another kid on the speech team. He canvasses at the homes of registered Democrats who voted in the past two primaries.

"So, what do you say to them?" I asked BW over dinner the other night. Darling Husband and I were all ears.

"It depends on who comes to the door. I have a couple of different speeches."

"OK," I said. "What would your spiel be to me?"

"Well, if you came to the door I'd talk about health care," he immediately replied.

My mind raced: Oh my God, do I really look THAT old?

Beat.

Then I remembered that my right arm is in a sling and bandaged from elbow to shoulder, and there's an Ace bandage wrapped around my upper chest and shoulder.

"Oh, right. Health care."

We laughed so hard my face hurt.

Please, Not Before My Coffee!

This morning, the Boy Wonder and I moseyed up the block to the just-opened Tattered Cover, which moved its entire inventory to the new location yesterday. We walked in the side entrance, closest to the cafe, and right in front of us was a large shelf unit marked "Bestsellers." At eyeball level was GODLESS: The Church of Liberalism by Ann Coulter, whose smirking face I can't abide, especially first thing in the morning.

"Eww! She sure doesn't look like she goes to church," I remarked. "She looks like a devil."

"She is the Devil," Boy Wonder snapped back.

Darling Husband just returned from his tour of the store and he too was creeped out at being greeted by Coulter. He and Boy Wonder insist she's a tranny; BW claims she has an Adam's apple.

To give the Devil his/her due, try your hand at this fun--and scarily challenging--Hitler vs Coulter quiz. You'll be amazed by who said what! (I scored a 10; DH 9; BW 8.)

EDIT: For an antidote to the forgoing, see the Borowitz Report: U.S. Threatens to Launch Ann Coulter Towards North Korea.

Updike: Blogs not a part of "real society"

Today's Rocky Mountain News features a reverential interview with John Updike by books editor Patti Thorn. She spoke with him a month ago at BookExpo, a few hours after he had given an "impassioned speech, lamenting another recent Times article predicting the demise of books as Internet technology takes over."

Updike had this to say about Internet culture, which he admits to not understanding:

"You type in your blog, and some other people read it, and so you create a print society apart from real society and you're getting the gratification of expressing yourself . . . It's a way to develop a public persona, but it's very undiscriminating, and very 'me-minded.' We're all me-minded. We all have egos."

But writers in the past, such as Upton Sinclair, went beyond ego to serve a greater good, he says. "They were trying to improve the world . . . I get a feeling this electronic stuff is all kind of a game, another form of a video game."

I think similar things could have been said about 18th century pamphlet and broadside writers (except for the bit about video games; which, incidentally, I don't play). They created a print society apart from that of their compatriots, the vast majority of whom were illiterate. Yes, there's a lot of "me" in this blog and many others, but I hope that in some way we're all serving the greater good. I sure would like to improve the world, too, though I think it's the height of arrogance to even imply that my writing will do the trick.

How interesting that Updike decries the current generation of writers for not being like Upton Sinclair, when he sure as hell isn't either. Sinclair was an ardent Socialist whose books reflected his politics, and who thrice ran for office in spectacularly unsuccessful fashion.

Thorn writes that Updike's new novel, Terrorist:

... was born the day he attended a child's birthday party in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. From the window, featuring an expansive view of downtown Manhattan, he saw smoke billowing from the Twin Towers. ..

"Suddenly, the thing went down and we heard it. There was a kind of tinkling, a delicate sound, almost like wind chimes. I suppose it was all the glass shattering. Then, whooomp and dust covering the towers, and the whole island of Manhattan was wailing with sirens."

Very affecting, but who has a kid's birthday party from 8:30-10:30 on a Tuesday morning in September? Something's out of kilter here.

UPDATE 6/19: Per Galleycat, which did the Proper Journalistic Thing and checked with Knopf:

Updike did in fact go to Brooklyn for a child's birthday party, and though it wasn't on the morning of 9/11, he was still in the city, and that's when he saw what he saw...

Let this be a lesson on the importance of clear writing and good editing.

In Praise of Light Reading

A publicist of whom I'm very fond sent me a get-well package containing a beautiful bottle of white wine and a copy of a novel she's representing. Her lovely note begins, "Curl up with your cat and this book."

How sweet and considerate! How...FRUSTRATING!

Why? Here, let me count the ways:

1) First and worst of all, given that this is my third concussion--or is it the fourth? my memory's a bit hazy for some reason--I was forbidden any alcohol for six months. (I am much obliged to Miss Snark for her generous offer to have an extra pail of gin in my honor. Check out the especially terrific posts and comments on her blog today.)

2) No curling up for me, thanks to a broken right arm and two bottom ribs.

3) I have to keep my right arm--and myself with it--horizontal as much as possible. Sitting-up time is saved for the computer and meals. So I do almost all my reading lying flat on my back in bed or on the rented electric-powered La-Z-Boy recliner (assuming I can pry Boy Wonder off the latter).

4) Max (see About Me at top) "curls up" by draping his 13-lb self on my chest and nestling his head under my chin, making reading--and sometimes breathing--impossible. Then I usually also have to reach down with my good hand to pet jealous Jenny the dog, who isn't allowed on the furniture.

5) My right hand isn't functioning, so when Max is draped elsewhere, I have to hold up and keep a book open with my left hand alone.

6) The novel the publicist sent is in hardcover, 747 pages, and weighs 2-1/2 POUNDS. I could hardly hold it up closed for a few seconds; forget holding it up open for many hours. Whereas The Great Gatsby is in paperback, 180 pages, and weighs 5-7/8 OUNCES. Guess which book I read yesterday? (More about that in another post.)

I really wanted to read Them by Francine du Plessix Gray, but at almost 2 lbs in hardcover, with 530 pp set in fussy, hard-to-read Centaur MT, I gave up in exhaustion on page 26.

Today I'm reading a year-old ARC of Rattled by Debra Galant, 243 pp, 10-5/8 oz. (Love that new kitchen scale!) The blurb by Tom Perrotta reads: "Debra Galant does for the McMansions of New Jersey what Carl Hiaasen did for the swamps of Florida." I'm only on page 15 and loving it already. And damn if Galant isn't a ringer for Carrie Fisher.

More Lightweight Books to Take to Bed, or Anywhere:

• The Vanishing Point by Mary Sharratt. Trade paper historical fiction that absolutely won't put you to sleep.
• When All Is Said and Done by Robert Hill. Hardcover, 220 pp, only 12 oz, and absolutely brilliant! More later.
• Coupon Girl by Becky Motew. Super-light mass market & a total hoot. Don't be fooled by chick-y cover; Darling Husband, who favors Hiaasen & Mob capers, thought it was a gas too.
• Around The Next Corner by Elizabeth Wrenn. Trade paper "women's fiction." Don't gag: It's funny, profound & poignant--with an adorable puppy too!
• I'd Hate Myself in the Morning by Ring Lardner Jr. Hardcover, 224 pp; also in even lighter pb. Memoir of the blacklisted, Academy Award-winning screenwriter, with many creepy parallels to today's political situation

Quotes for the Day (and all time)

"If today you can take a thing like evolution and make it a crime to teach in the public schools, tomorrow you can make it a crime to teach it in the private schools and next year you can make it a crime to teach it to the hustings or in the church. At the next session you may ban books and the newspapers... Ignorance and fanaticism are ever busy and need feeding. Always feeding and gloating for more. Today it is the public school teachers; tomorrow the private. The next day the preachers and the lecturers, the magazines, the books, the newspapers. After a while, Your Honor, it is the setting of man against man and creed against creed until with flying banners and beating drums we are marching backward to the glorious ages of the sixteenth century when bigots lighted fagots to burn the men who dared to bring any intelligence and enlightenment and culture to the human mind."
--Clarence Darrow, Tennessee vs. John Scopes, 1925

"The net effect of Clarence Darrow's great speech yesterday seemed to be precisely the same as if he had bawled it up a rainspout in the interior of Afghanistan."
--H. L. Mencken, "THE MONKEY TRIAL": A Reporter's Account


For more great quotes: Marta Randall, Quotations about Writing and life and etc

Why It's Called a "Deadline"

On the front page of today's Denver Post, there's the sad tale of the death of artist Luis Jimenez, who was killed by a falling portion of his massive sculpture of a mustang that had been commissioned by Denver International Airport more than 13 years ago. Jimenez had missed four deadlines--most recently on May 31--and according to the DP, "In 2004, a mediator had to intervene when the artist refused the city's request to refund its money and allow someone else to finish the job." I imagine there are editors who have fantasized (or will now) about similar fates for authors of long-overdue manuscripts.

In other art news...If like me and Darling Husband, you gag at the icky-poo world depicted in the images manufactured by Thomas Kinkade, "Painter of Light" you MUST see these hilarious creations at Something Awful (again, thanks to the Boy Wonder). My favorite is on its own page, "so as not to infect any other images."

Tempest in a Teacup

Thanks to Galleycat ("Real Book Critic Wags Finger at Online Upstarts") for calling attention to the snit over a June 8 post on Critical Mass, the National Book Critics Circle blog, questioning the reliability of lit bloggers who (gasp!) have permalinks to booksellers. Reminds me of the old Henry Kissinger quote: "University politics are vicious precisely because the stakes are so small." They're even smaller in book reviewing, trust me on this.

I was compelled to leave a comment in support of the bloggers, even though I'm an NBCC member and have no commercial links here or on my writings & reviews website.

It's a Two-Fisted, Right-Handed World

This winter, I read David Wolman's A LEFT-HAND TURN AROUND THE WORLD: Chasing the Mystery and Meaning of All Things Southpaw because I had invited him to be on my "Travel with a Twist" panel at the Virginia Festival of the Book. The book is fascinating, funny and densely packed with medical and scientific research--and best read when the mind is sharp and focused (i.e., not at bedtime). But truth be told, I read it somewhat as a curiosity. I'm very much right-handed, so most of what Wolman wrote about didn't apply to me.

And then I broke my right arm.

For the past six weeks, I have been exclusively left-handed, and may be so for quite a while longer. Suddenly the world is different: Doors open on the wrong side, and are too heavy. (And what's with having a turn handle on the door of a multi-stall public bathroom? I couldn't get out of the ladies' room at Whole Foods without inside help.) Even if I was recovered from the concussion enough to drive now, I couldn't turn the ignition key or shift gears.

I can't use my front teeth, so Zip-loc bags were impossible to open till the Boy Wonder used his blazing intellect and E.T.-like fingers to figure out how. (It still ain't easy, and no way if the bag is at all greasy.) But forget about opening a new bottle of vitamins, with its layers of safety features; or a 1/2 gallon tub of Dreyers ice cream (my fave); or a childproof medicine container; or a new plastic bag of cheese with one of those sliding seals; or a wide-mouth jar; or a can of food; or or or...

However, I've become a one-handed typing ace, thanks to long fingers and a smallish laptop keyboard. (My handwriting is nothing to brag about, though. On a good day, it looks like that of an 8-year-old; on a bad day, a 98-year-old.) It hurts my arm to bend way over, so when I drop something and the picker-upper gadget isn't handy, I use my toes, which are also long (thanks, Mom!). I amazed and impressed Darling Husband by picking up a jar top and placing it in his hand--twice. I can also use my toes to work the turn controls on our little floor fans.

As Wolman explains in his book, the left hand-right brain/right hand-left brain stuff of popular culture is mostly hooey. However, there are differences in brain activity between people who are predominantly right- or left-handed. Beyond being scrambled by the concussion and then painkillers*, I wonder how my brain has changed?

*I'm off 'em now, thank dog, and--go figure!--am thinking more clearly, much less dizzy and much steadier on my feet. Every Rx for Neurontin should come with a free cane.

The Genuine Article

This morning, the Boy Wonder told me that one of the forums at Something Awful is happily abuzz over some footage of Mr. Rogers vs. Senator Pastore, described thusly:

In 1969 the US Senate had a hearing on funding the newly developed Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The proposed endowment was $20 million, but President Nixon wanted it cut in half because of the spending going on in the Vietnam War. This is a video clip of the exchange between Mr. Rogers and Senator Pastore, head of the hearing. Senator Pastore starts out very abrasive and by the time Mr. Rogers is done talking, Senator Pastore's inner child has heard Mr. Rogers and agreed with him. Enjoy.

Even more moving is a 1997 Esquire feature by Tom Junod, Can You Say ... Hero? This passage brought tears to my eyes:

And so, once upon a time, Fred Rogers took off his jacket and put on a sweater his mother had made him, a cardigan with a zipper. Then he took off his shoes and put on a pair of navy-blue canvas boating sneakers. He did the same thing the next day, and then the next…until he had done the same things, those things, 865 times, at the beginning of 865 television programs, over a span of thirty-one years. The first time I met Mister Rogers, he told me a story of how deeply his simple gestures had been felt, and received. He had just come back from visiting Koko, the gorilla who has learned—or who has been taught—American Sign Language. Koko watches television. Koko watches Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, and when Mister Rogers, in his sweater and sneakers, entered the place where she lives, Koko immediately folded him in her long, black arms, as though he were a child, and then … "She took my shoes off, Tom," Mister Rogers said.

This is in praise of all the genuine people, not least of whom was my husband's aunt Vivian, whose funeral was this morning. I wish that I was whole enough to attend.

Music to Get Cut By

One of the most emailed articles at NYTimes.com today is While in Surgery, Do You Prefer Abba or Verdi? Funny they should ask, because yesterday I had 3 root canals, courtesy of my equestrian fiasco on May 1.

The only drugs I'm resistant to are injectable oral anesthetics, so Dr V, who has a traveling knock-out practice, came to the endodontist's to do the honors.

"OK, now we're going to give you some happy gas!" he announced, and the tech stuck a foam-rubber hose contraption over my nose, which (1) itched, (2) hurt the broken bone, (3) smelled stuffy and (4) was difficult to breathe through.

No matter how little happy gas I was actually inhaling, I found it hilarious that the song toodling throughout the office as Dr V prepared me for the IV was "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." I said as much, and he and the tech found it funny too. What I didn't find so funny was all the agony and expense this girl has been going through just because she wanted to have fun on horseback.

At least my mouth isn't hurting much worse now than before. And Dreyer's (aka Edy's) Real Strawberry ice cream is a very tasty and effective analgesic.

You Stab My Back, I'll Stab Yours...

At a National Book Critics Circle program a few years ago, I asked the bow-tied panelist from the NYT Book Review why they had authors review books by their competitors. While exaggeratedly rolling and fluttering his eyes, he stated in condescending uber-George Plimpton tones distinctly at odds with his African-American looks, "Oh, we NEVER do that at The Times."

"Bushwah!" I thought, having recently read a smackdown in the Times of a first novel by the author of a similarly themed novel that just happened to be coming out that very same week.

And now we have John Dean of Watergate fame reviewing Mark "Deep Throat" Felt's memoir in the NYT. (See Rush & Mulloy piece in the June 9 NY Daily News & coauthor John D. O'Connor's letter to the NYTBR with reply from Dean.) Double bushwah!

What's next: Reviews of true crime novels by the criminals? Oh wait...we sort of have that already with the Dean review. Maybe some of the Bushies (Karl Rove? Dick Cheney?) could review books on global warming, or on the oil crisis, or on the rise of Christian conservatism. And Rumsfeld could review the next "Iraq is a mess" tome.

When I was reviewing for the Washington Post not so long ago, I had to sign a contract stating that I had no personal or professional relationship with the author of the book, didn't share an agent or publisher, nor had the author reviewed my work. And there are tales about a NY book review editor so strict, he/she (I forgot which), wouldn't assign a review if the reviewer had so much as shared an elevator ride with the author.

Oh brave new world...

And DON'T get me started on how few reviews are by women, or of books by women--even though women comprise more than 50% of the population and buy 80% of the books. The WashPost is just as guilty as the NY Times in this regard. Men generally review "serious" nonfiction (even when authored by females), while women get fiction, lite nonfiction and, of course, children's and YA. The pink collar thrives and is chafing more than ever.

Origins of Ancient Myth Revealed!

For years, there has been much earnest--and sometimes irate--talk in writers' circles as to the merits of including a self-addressed stamped envelope when submitting a manuscript to a literary agent or editor. Some writers insist that including a SASE is a tacit hint to the agent/editor to reject the work; no SASE means that the author has confidence it will be accepted. Whereas to agents such as Miss Snark and Kristin Nelson, no SASE means that the manuscript will most likely end up in the recycling bin.

Many people have wondered how and when the no-SASE myth began. Well, today I cracked the mystery! As frequently happens with great discoveries, I stumbled upon this one unawares. In my current state of painful inactivity, I've been avoiding all news except of the book biz--and have cut way back even on that--instead only reading novels and memoirs. (No creepy or violent movies, either. Hence I turned off "Pulp Fiction" midway through & switched to "The Fabulous Baker Boys.")

So this morning I started reading the very entertaining 2000 memoir I'D HATE MYSELF IN THE MORNING by the late Ring Lardner Jr. ("M*A*S*H"), the last surviving member of the HUAC "Hollywood Ten," with a sobering introduction by Victor Navasky. And look what I found:

In 1924, when F. Scott Fitzgerald sold Max Perkins of Charles Scribner's Sons on the idea of a collection of Ring Lardner short stories, Dad... accepted Scott's title, How to Write Short Stories. Instead of a serious introduction, though, he wrote: "A good many young writers make the mistake of enclosing a stamped, self-addressed envelope big enough for the manuscript to come back in. This is too much of a temptation to the editor. Personally I have found it a good scheme to not even sign my name to the story, and when I have got it sealed up in its envelope and stamped and addressed, I take it to some town where I don't live and mail it from there. The editor has no idea who wrote the story, so how can he send it back? He is in a quandary."

There Goes the Neighborhood!

I may not be able to drive--in fact I'm on my back for at least a week so that the nerves in my right arm heal properly--but in 3 weeks I'll be able to totter just 5 doors down to The Tattered Cover, one of the best bookstores in the U.S. All those times I interviewed owner Joyce Meskis and fiction buyer Margaret Maupin on the phone for Publishers Weekly years ago, little did I know that one day we'd be neighbors.

As reported today in Galleycat and Shelf Awareness, the Rocky Mountain News and Denver Post were all over the story this weekend. Amazingly, the old location will be open for business as usual on 6/24 and the new one will open on 6/26, with the ENTIRE MOVE occurring on 6/25. There will be an army of staff assisted by many volunteers, who started offering their services as soon as word got out. Shows how strongly people feel about their bookstore.

Also moving in, though not right away, will be a record store, movie theatre with real food
(!) and a folklore center. I'll hardly need to drive (or ride) anywhere. Which may be just as well, as we who park on the street have been nervously eyeing the progress of the new parking structure on the next block, which doesn't even have elevators in yet.

The Importance of Horticultural Nomenclature

I was in the examining room of Dr S, my most excellent osteopath, where he was going over the X-ray and lab reports from my hospital stay. First he asked me about my broken arm, then ribs, nose, rest of face and mouth.

Then: "How's your bush?

"My WHAT?" I was sure I had misheard.

"Your bush. How's your bush?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I'd never heard anything remotely vulgar from Dr S, a soft-spoken teddy bear whose receptionist wife was seated just steps outside the door. Besides, even if he was being crude, I was uninjured below the waist, so he had no reason to inquire about my nether regions.

"YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW MY BUSH IS DOING?" I was fairly spluttering.

Pause.

"Yeah, you know--that little plant I brought you in the hospital."

I must have looked stunned. He added, "I didn't mean that bush!"

"Well, I was sort of wondering..." I said. "Anyway, it's a topiary ivy, not a bush!"

"OK, whatever," he said. "But wasn't it cute?"

We laughed so hard I thought I'd split my upper lip again.

It's Alive!

That "it" would be me, of course. For a few days, I looked a lot more like an it than a she (though I quickly learned to look in the mirror as seldom as possible). Actually, what I most looked like was an actor in a horror movie that won an Oscar for best makeup. I had no idea that one could get eye bags that puff out a half-inch. Live and learn...

For the record, I fell off a horse named Gomez while trotting without stirrups. I'd done such an exercise many times before, though never on Gomez, whom I was riding for only the 2nd time. Guess I should have spoken French (hey, it worked for Morticia); instead I lost my balance and pitched off to the right, smashing my body onto the hard ground and the side of my face against a metal-pipe fencepost. [Edit: He threw me. Hard. I couldn't have gotten such extensive injuries otherwise.] I remember starting to fall and thinking, Oh s**t! I'm going to hit that metal fence! And then the next thing I knew I was hearing loud helicopter sounds (Wow! Just like in "Apocalypse Now"!) but couldn't see anything because my eyes were bloodied shut. (Regional trivia: in Colorado, it's called "Flight for Life," not "Med-Evac"; and rubbernecking drivers by traffic accidents are called "curiosity stoppers.") Fortunately for me, also taking riding lessons at the same time were a physician and an emergency room nurse, so I was expertly attended to from the minute I hit the ground.

I was in the MTU ("multiple trauma unit" but to me it was Empty you!) at Swedish Medical Center for a week--the longest I'd ever been in a hospital. I have quite an impressive set of injuries, if I do say so myself: concussion (and that was with my wearing a strong, well-padded helmet); broken right humerus, 2 floating ribs, nose, right eyebrow, maxillary sinuses, hard palate; loosened top front tooth that will probably need root canal; rearranged bite that may require braces (Sigh...I'd already done braces in my mid-20s!)

My G.P. commented the other day, "Well, you're going to have quite the social life getting all this taken care of!" Indeed, but it's no comparison to the one I'm giving up for the next 2 months: BookExpo in DC next week (SOB!), biz trip to NY and Book Promotion 101 workshop in LA in June.

Still, things could have been So Much Worse. I'm extremely grateful and happy to be alive, relatively well and unlikely to need any major surgery. Plus, my nose, which always tilted to the right (and which I had indeed broken when I fell in March), now lines up more plumb in the center of my face. Call it a benefit of Impromptu Equestrian Rhinoplasty.

Fun multi-culti hospital event:
On May 5, with each meal tray I received a little red card in the shape of a sombrero that read, "Happy Cinco de Mayo from your Swedish volunteers!" Sure made my blenderized eggs and Jell-o go down easier.

Most important of all:
My most heartfelt thanks for all the messages of concern and healing wishes. They mean the world to me.

She Lived With Her Boots Off

Here's an update on Bella:

She's made great progress during the week, but has a long way to go. Still don't know if she'll have surgery -- there's a possibility it won't be necessary. And she comes home tomorrow night. Expected recovery time is 8-10 weeks. Despite the breaks, bruises and a concussion, she is in good spirits most of the time, has sharp thinking (except sometimes from pain meds) and her sense of humor.

She's been at Swedish Medical Center, and we've been very pleased with the staff there. This is true: on one shift yesterday her nurse's name was Madonna and the tech's name wasBritney (not sure of spelling). No sign of Guy Ritchie or Kevin Federline, however.

Eric

What do Bella and Madonna have in Common?

This is Bella's "Darling Husband" writing (and I can't express how much I love being referred to that way!)...

Bella suffered a fall (but she doesn't suffer fools) while horse-riding yesterday. She'll be fine, but has several broken bones and bruises. She's in hospital, is cogent and dictating "to-do" items, one of which was to post this message. Surgery is still a question mark, so I don't know how long she'll be in -- probably several days to a week, and then plenty of time at home.

What do Bella and Madonna have in common? Did you think I was referring to Madonna's spill last year from a horse, resulting in broken bones? No, it's that they're both beautiful and look younger than their years.

Eric

When a Publicist Works Too Hard...

Sometimes all you can do is shake your head in disbelief. I offer the "Snark Attack!" in Lloyd Grove's column in today's NY Daily News:

Tonight's the second night of Passover - so it's hard to believe that even the most hapless publicist would send out a press release offering up Bill Downs, "one of the world's foremost experts on diet and nutrition," to discuss "the unspoken dark side" of the Seder: "Flatulence, irritable bowels, heartburn ... are common Passover conditions," Downs' flack explains. "Instead of reflecting on the Jewish people's exodus from Egypt, we end up struggling to contain the exodus of gas." Sadly, I have been assured that this release is not a hoax.

Who Let the Jews Out?

That's the musical question posed in the hilarious animated Passover greeting on the website for Sam Apple's equally hilarious--and poignant--book, SCHLEPPING THROUGH THE ALPS: My Search for Austria's Jewish Past with Its Last Wandering Shepherd.

Apple was on my "Travel with a Twist" panel last month at the VaBook Festival. I bought the hardcover as a birthday present for Darling Husband last year. It's now out in paperback.

Cogito Zero Sum

If for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, then there's someone out there who's been inordinately healthy the past couple of months. Because I have been inordinately unhealthy. Since early February, I have had pneumonia, shingles, an upper respiratory infection and, as of yesterday evening, the stomach flu. (It came on while I was putting the finishing touches on our Passover dinner. I had one sip of wine and a mini-bite of matzoh before going to bed.) Also, between the shingles and infection I fell and apparently cracked the bone at the bridge of my nose.

This being Passover, all I can say is DAYENU*!!!

The only bright side to all this (relatively speaking) is that, thanks to the Levaquin I took for the URI plus the flu, I've lost 10 lbs in the past 10 days. I do not, however, recommend this as a weight-loss method.

Edit: It was food poisoning, not flu. It's going to be a long time before I get my lunch again from the self-serve bar at the supermarket. At least I got a $30 gift card for my pains. The manager said he was sorry for "any inconvenience." I told him that this was way more than inconvenient.

*ENOUGH

The cup half-full

From Publishers Marketplace Deal Lunch:

Cathy Bueti's BREASTLESS IN THE CITY, a young woman's journey through diagnosis, treatments, dating and surviving breast cancer, to Larry Chilnick at Cleveland Clinic Press, by Coleen O'Shea of Allen O'Shea Literary Agency.

If we're going to reference a TV show in a book about breast cancer, I have an infinitely better title:

THE YOUNG AND THE BREASTLESS

Remember you saw it here first, folks.

Stringing words together is hard

For those who think that anyone can write a short story, let me point you to the entries in Miss Snark's writing contest. The rules (see her April 2 post) were simple: 500 words max; extra points for using a list of 6 words & 5 phrases. Miss Snark apparently was overcome by the number of responses: 100+ in less than 24 hours. Though I think if she'd kept her head out of the gin pail, she'd have seen that her legions of adoring fans (her blog has had more than a half-million visitors since last July) would leap to the challenge. And quite a challenge it is, as you can see from the varying quality of the entries, which Miss Snark posted unedited. (Reminder: Spell check doesn't catch homonyms.) Fortunately, there are few clinkers. Some of the stories are stunningly imaginative and several are laugh-out-loud funny. Darling Husband and I shared a half-hour of domestic bliss yesterday evening, during which he prepared his famous Tofu Surprise while I read him some of my favorites.

VaBook III - More Fabu Fotos

From dinner on Saturday with a much smaller crew (6 instead of 13) at Southern Culture...

(right) Victor Navasky of The Nation and writer Deirdra McAfee.

(below) Mr. GalleyCat himself.









Earlier in the day, writer Digby Diehl and I snuck off to Keswick Hall, an Orient Express property, for a blissfully serene High Tea amongst The Quality Set (gotta love the screaming red UVa Cavalier-printed pants and not-quite-matching yellow golf sweater sported by one of the guests). Here we are, stuffed on scones and all sorts of other goodies.










It's not much, but we call it home...(I wish!)

VaBook Festival II - Fab Fotos

Ron Hogan of GalleyCat wasn't the only person wielding a camera in Charlottesville last weekend. Here are some pix I brought home in my trusty Canon PowerShot.

From dinner on Friday over "comfort food with a twist" at Escafe...

(below) Novelist Melanie Lynne Hauser.




(right) Novelist Masha Hamilton and Robert Gray of Fresh Eyes Now.




(left) YA author Sharon Baldacci regales novelists Daniela Kuper and Judi Hendricks with a funny story.



(right) Novelist Leora Skolkin-Smith.




(below) Novelist Lynn Isenberg and David Kipen, author & NEA Literature Director.

VaBook Festival I

Well, I needn't have obsessed about that closeup (or maybe someone at CSPAN read the post below), as BookTV didn't show up to tape my "Journalism Then & Now" panel last Saturday--though they interviewed panelist Victor Navasky earlier in the day. Unfortunately, Margo Jefferson of the NYT was ill and couldn't attend, but Digby Diehl, Stephen Farnsworth and Navasky held down the fort with panache and passion.

Farnsworth observed that TV news these days focuses more on car chases, celebrities and the weather than on important events and issues. And he's obviously right, as there were maybe 50 in the audience, whereas an earlier panel on weather in the same venue had a crowd of 200+ spilling out the doors. What Mark Twain noted is still true, though: "Everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it."

During the Q&A session, someone asked about the "liberal bias" of public television. Farnsworth quickly flipped through his book, THE MEDIATED PRESIDENCY, and cited statistics showing that coverage on "The News Hour" was no more positive for Clinton than Bush. (I just love a man--or woman--with facts at his fingertips!) In essence, the media aren't any more "liberal" now; it's public perception that has changed. And as we know, perception almost always trumps reality.

"It's the Writing, Stupid"

That was my response to a question from an aspiring writer at my "From Manuscript to Cash Register" panel on Saturday at the VaBook Festival. As I explained to her, I in no way meant to demean her intelligence. However, like far too many wannabes, she was focusing on extraneous details rather than on what matters most: her writing. In her case, she was obsessing over cover art, illustrations and a marketing plan. Others--and you can see them in droves at Miss Snark's and Kristin Nelson's blogs, and elsewhere--waste countless bytes fretting over whether query letters should be in Times Roman or Courier, or if an agent will be put off by extra stamps on an envelope because postage rates went up. (I wish I was making this up!)

As I said to the 200-odd people in the audience--many of them studiously taking notes--whether you're a reviewer (as I am); or an agent, editor, publisher or bookseller, as were the panelists*, every time you crack open a galley or manuscript you want to be entranced by the writing; the rest is just gravy. Make us cry, make us laugh, thrill us, scare us--but make us fall in love with your writing.


*Simon Lipskar, Writers House agent; Starling Lawrence, editor-in-chief, WW Norton; Catharine Lynch, assoc. publisher, Putnam/Riverhead; and Robert Gray, Fresh Eyes Now.

I'm Ready for My Closeup--Just Don't Get Too Close

Fortunately my nose-to-the-windowsill incident last Sunday didn't result in a black eye (or two)--though the doctor did say to Darling Husband, "When are you going to stop beating your wife?" The doctor told me to use Liquid Bandage on the cut--another of the great inventions of the 20th century, along with penicillin, oil-filled electric radiators and rope caulk. But I do have this prominent (to me, anyway) scab on the bridge of my nose and I discovered yesterday that Liquid Bandage is not very compatible with cover stick. The Show Must Go On, though; I'm just hoping that the Book TV cameraman won't be zooming in for any super-tight shots at today's "Journalism Then & Now" panel at the VaBook Fesival. I just checked the Book TV schedule and, unlike in previous years, they're not running any events live. Hmmpf!

Don't hold the phone!

Date: Wed., March 22 -- though it could be any day in the current century.

Location: Airport ladies' room, Charlotte, NC -- though it could be any city in the U.S.

Heard from the next stall: Tinkle tinkle, Ring ring, tinkle tinkle, ring..."Hello?...Oh hi, Linda! How are you?...I'm fine, I'm in the ladies' room at the airport. I'm peeing [tittering laughter]. As soon as I'm done, I'm going to get my baggage and go home...Yeah, I'll call you when I get there...OK, bye."

Please, could we all agree (the sooner the better) that:
1) Just because you can use the phone everywhere doesn't mean you should use it in the can.
2) Some activities should remain private.

Hey, Kids: Let's Play Spot the Allusion!

Coming soon to the small screen, a new animated series being produced by National Geographic:

Aimed at kids ages 6-11, "Iggy Arbuckle" follows the misadventures of a hiking, climbing, singing, thrill-seeking "nature-freak" pig and his faithful sidekick Jiggers, a high-spirited, fast-talking, industrious beaver. Together, the pair enjoy (and sometimes barely survive) incredible escapades in the Kookamunga wilderness as they brave hot, sticky swamps, tropical rain forests, off-kilter critters, eccentric wildlife and other natural phenomena that are anything but natural. (2005 press release)

Now, let's see...Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle (photo above) was a silent-screen comedian whose thrill-seeking misadventures included a drunken party over Labor Day 1921 that culminated in the death of starlet Virginia Rappe. Arbuckle was arrested and tried--3 times!--for her death. He was ultimately exonerated, but his career tanked and he died in 1933, just after filming a comeback role in the Vitaphone short, "In the Dough."

As my anonymous correspondent noted: "No jiggers there; Fatty likely drank straight from the bottle." Therefore, in light of this history, I suggest that Jiggers the beaver be renamed.

How about Ginny? No...wait...

Ooh, I've got it! Here's one that today's groovy kids will really dig: Rapper!

Should've Stayed in Bed

I woke up at 6:30 this morning (not on purpose; I was exhausted from cleaning house for the first time in 6 weeks and had gone to bed early). My slippers were across the room, and as I shuffled around in the gloom trying to get them on, I lost my balance. I grabbed hold of Darling Husband's little wooden desk chair, and for a split second thought I was OK. But no, the chair toppled over and I pitched forward, smacking the bridge of my nose on the windowsill. ("What nice big windows," I exclaimed when I first viewed the house. "And look how low the sills are!") Next I heard breaking glass: the top of my head had smashed into the window pane.

"Wha-wha-what's going on," Darling Husband asked groggily. (He'd gone to a concert and hadn't gotten to bed till 1 a.m.) I told him and he bounded over to inspect the damage--with slippers on, as he always has his by the bed.

Fortunately, we have long, thick curtains, so I didn't hit bare wood; or worse, glass. Still, I had an almost half-inch gash on the bony peak of my nose. (Good thing I wasn't wearing my glasses; also that they're wire-rimmed, so the bridge sits above the cut instead of on it.) Ten minutes later, instead of sipping tea and reading the Sunday paper, I was back in bed with a Band-aid on my nose and an ice pack on my face, while Darling Husband picked up glass inside and out.

So now I have a sore nose and a roaring headache. I'm fervently praying that I don't end up with black eyes, as I'm moderating four panels at the Virginia Festival of the Book next weekend, one of which is going to be taped by Book TV. In the meantime, I might be investing in some pancake makeup--or a veil.

Moral: Keep your slippers by your bedside and never get up any earlier than you have to.

In the Mood for Chinese?

I laughed so hard I nearly cried when I read the menu and commentary at Rahoi.com, by an American living in China. Here's a taste:

black bowel and cowboy leg? Add candlelight and you have yourself a date.

Thanks to Susan Ito at ReadingWritingLiving!

And the prize for misleading headline goes to...

OK, how would you interpret the banner hed below? It topped a half-page ad for Volvo in today's Denver Post (just below a review of "V for Vendetta").

Swedish Automaker Linked

to Nation's Overpopulation

If your mind runs along the same elevated track as mine, you immediately start thinking of passionate couples taking advantage of the Volvo wagon's roomy interior. (Darling Husband's response when I showed him the ad: "People really like to fuck in their cars.") And then you think, "Hey, wait a minute! Sweden isn't overpopulated!"

And then you read this inane and ungrammatical pseudo-reportage:

IRVINE, Ca. -- With people living longer than ever and the US population continuing to climb at alarming rates [I agree; there are way too many mountaineers], some experts are pointing to Swedish automaker, Volvo, and their obsession with safety as a root cause of this trend.

Translation: Too many people is a bad thing, and Volvo is responsible for the badness. Therefore...you should drive an unsafe car in order to trim the surplus population. Call it "vehicular eugenics."

WHAT??!!!

That's what I shrieked when I got to the paragraph below, in a WWD story headlined “Borrowed Memories.” Seems that former London fashion writer Emily Davies signed a $900K (!) deal with Simon & Schuster for her memoir, How to Wear Black: Adventures on Fashion’s Front Line, pitched as “a cross between The Devil Wears Prada and How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.” Problem is, WWD discovered that none of the several fashionistas cited in Davies' proposal have any recollection of meeting her. Further, her quotes from those encounters appear to have been lifted from “The Glamour Girl’s Guide to Life,” a 1998 New York Times article by Monique P. Yazigi.

Davies, who reportedly departed The Times of London last year amid an inquiry into her expenses, responded to WWD’s questions with a statement defending her actions in the proposal. Saying it was “not intended for public consumption,” Davies claimed, in effect, that it was easier for her to give prospective publishers the flavor of her memoir by appropriating other writers’ words than by relying on her own memories. “The first thing I did when I began putting together my proposal…was to dig out a mass of notes, cuttings and stories I had assembled over the years.…Although I used these notes in the proposal, there would be no question of my using any unoriginal material in my finished book.”

As the Brits would say: Pull the other leg; it's got bells on it.

Sunday Philosophy Club*, U.S. chapter

Plato & Aristotle, "The School of Athens" by Raphael [see edit at bottom]

From an LA Times story headlined "Murderer Tells Jury of Gang's Strength," about the trial of prison gang leader Clifford Smith:

Wearing prison scrubs and an eye patch that he slipped on and off during questioning, Smith described how the Aryan Brotherhood empowered a three-man commission to oversee drug running and killings in prisons nationwide and developed a reading list for prospective members, including writings of Plato, Nietzsche and Machiavelli.

The good news: Prisoners are reading the classics!

*apologies to Alexander McCall Smith

Edit: Hey, wait a minute! After having studied "The School of Athens" in art history a gazillion years ago and seeing it any number of times since, I just noticed that Raphael made a howling error: There were no bound books in Plato & Aristotle's day. They had scrolls.

Famous Last Words

Max Yasgur's farm, Bethel, NY

We replaced our ancient, buzzing stereo speakers this past weekend. To celebrate, Darling Husband went digging deep into his massive vinyl collection, and at my behest unearthed the Sha Na Na album, "Rock and Roll Is Here to Stay!"

In addition to endearingly naive profiles of the band members (Rich Joffe "will major in both English and Goverment"; Alan Cooper "has conducted Jewish high holiday services in a Miami old age home"), the album sports a double-page collage of New York Times articles about rock 'n' roll and the Woodstock festival.

One clip, headlined "Farmer with Soul: Max Yasgur," features the following passage, which resonates eerily:

His red barn, fronting on Route 17B, with its long line of parked cars, displays a big sign reading "Free Water." He put up this sign when he heard that some residents were selling water to the youngsters at the festival.

He slammed a work-hardened fist down on the table and demanded of some friends:

"How can anyone ask for money for water?"

Call Me Alceste

Courtyard in Pézenas, France, one-time home of playwright Molière; taken by yours truly last summer (sigh...)

Here's why I don't critique unpublished work, especially by fledgling writers.

From Molière's "Le Misanthrope":

Oronte: ...as you are a man of brilliant parts, and to inaugurate our charming amity, I come to read you a sonnet which I made a little while ago, and to find out whether it be good enough for publicity.

Alceste: I am not fit, sir, to decide such a matter. You will therefore excuse me.

Oronte: Why so?

Alceste: I have the failing of being a little more sincere in those things than is necessary.

Lifted from a comment on "Will You Read My Novel?" at Miss Snark, the Literary Agent. In a related vein, see If I Let My Fire Go Out, How Can I Warm My Neighbor? at MJ Rose's blog, Buzz, Balls & Hype.